


the days pass so slowly (and it never fades)

by apophoenix



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Everyone Needs A hug?, Everything Hurts, F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nicole Haught Needs A Hug, Waverly Earp Needs a Hug, a newly dry country, an undiagnosed case of PTSD, and literal monsters, here be monsters in the form of, lots of loneliness, this is the post-apocalyptic supernatural wild west after all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29939256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apophoenix/pseuds/apophoenix
Summary: "That was only a week ago,before, yet it feels like a fraction of a millisecond and an entire lifetime has passed. When she remembers all the moments thereafter, time seems to stop altogether.Time, as it were, continues on."Before, there were eighteen months, three weeks, and four days when Nicole was without her family. Then there was after.
Relationships: Nicole Haught & Rachel Valdez (Wynonna Earp TV), Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp & Nicole Haught
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	the days pass so slowly (and it never fades)

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a minute. The pandemic, capitalism, and lots of drinking siphoned my creativity in 2020. You know how it goes. Something about this show makes me want to write words though, especially now as we enter the latter half of the fourth season amidst some troubling network news (and the ongoing struggles caused by the pandemic, capitalism, and drinking).
> 
> Initially this was going to be a long one-shot exploring how Nicole (and Rachel) got on while Wynonna, Waverly, and Doc were in The Garden. Then it was going to be a long one-shot exploring how she got on after their return. Then I thought to combine the _before_ and the _after_ and then chapters happened.
> 
> (It's all a ploy to hold myself accountable).
> 
> Cheers to found family, mental illness, and the inevitable passage of time.
> 
> (Title taken from "Talking to Myself" by Justin Townes Earle.)

**day 1, before.**

By the skin of their teeth they escape.

Rachel, small as she is, bears the brunt of Nicole’s weight, staggering but never slowing as they rush through the dead and the undead, breathing in the toxic dust and debris only a dilapidated BBD building could suffuse. 

Her leg hurts, _bad_. Broken in three places, Rachel had said, but Nicole feels it everywhere. Her back, her neck, her head. They stumble from room to room, and Nicole tries to tell Rachel she likely holds the Guinness World Record for most concussions sustained whilst slaying demons, but she just slurs through a chuckle and Rachel shushes her, kicking open a door in such a Wynonna-esque fashion that Nicole feels the pain permeate elsewhere.

Her heart hurts the worst, but long ago she accepted that as an occupational hazard. Fucking Earps.

They make it to the truck, and Nicole has half a mind to ask Rachel if she knows how to drive before they set off, though she only answers with an icy glare before shoving Nicole into the passenger, mindful of her leg but not of her ears as she slams shut the door.

“What?” Nicole says to no one, Rachel rounding the car as fast as she can. “I thought it was a valid question.”

Rachel hits the gas before Nicole can tell her where to go, bald tires screeching so loudly against the pavement Nicole grits her teeth and tucks her head into her chest, overwhelmed by so much pain.

“We’ve gotta get you to a hospital,” Rachel says, taking a sharp right onto the interstate. Nicole, slouched in her seat, can barely keep her head from slamming into the window. “You don’t think they’ll ask questions, right?”

“Not in Purgatory,” Nicole manages in a single breath, vision blurring as Rachel takes a pothole and her mangled leg jostles. “But no one is there.”

“Then where do we go?”

xx

The nearest hospital is about ten kilometers from Monument. Rachel follows the signs on the road while Nicole tries to navigate on her shattered phone, unable to see through the cracks in the glass. Falling from a hundred feet will dole out its damage.

Eventually they get there, thanks mostly to Rachel having a decent sense of direction. 

“What do we tell them?” Rachel asks as she skirts the curb near the entrance of the hospital, once again causing Nicole to ricochet off the door.

Though barely conscious, the throbbing and aching throughout her body becoming a hypnotic rhythm that is swiftly sedating her, Nicole can discern the panic in Rachel’s tone. It occurs to her not for the first time that she is only a child, a teenager who, not hours before, happened upon the corpse of her mother after surviving for so long with some salvaged weapons, a savviness and tenacity Nicole would call almost Earp-like, and a lot of hope.

With as much strength as she can muster, she lays her hand over Rachel’s where it rests on the gear stick and smiles.

“How do I look?”

Rachel just blinks. “Honestly? Like you were mauled by a bear.”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

xx

Rock-climbing accident, she says instead, an equipment malfunction resulting in a fall that very well could’ve been fatal.

That last bit the emergency technician responsible for seeing her injuries were tended to says, claiming her chances of survival should have been slim to none.

She laughs until she sounds hysterical.

The doctor says she needs surgery, and Nicole knows better than to argue against it. So, once alone in her room, she leaves, Rachel, crutches, and a whole lot of pills and promises she intends to keep in tow.

xx

Purgatory was always a ghost town in the literal sense. Plagued by every known, and even unknown, fabled entity it has been as much a supernatural hotspot as a Waffle House in Roswell, New Mexico. This Nicole has come to accept, has come to adore in many ways. Though married to her routine, or as much as she can be considering both her professional and personal evade prediction, she relishes knowing no monster wears the same mask.

Purgatory is now a ghost town in the figurative sense too, not a soul nor a demon searching for a soul on the streets, and she knew this, had helped evacuate the town, but the sight of so much _nothing_ makes her stomach churn. 

Nicole tells Rachel where to go, suddenly nauseated.

xx

Why she expects Wynonna and Waverly and hell, even Doc fuckin’ Holliday, to be home already she does not know. She blames the pills, of which she has only taken one of and it was to placate Rachel. 

“I’m fine,” she said as Rachel cut through a narrow road not marked on the map. A shortcut, Nicole had told her, just as Waverly once had, her Jeep caroming off the unpaved gravel. The way she giggled when Nicole strained a smile and gripped the grab handle with white knuckles resounded throughout the cold interior of the truck, or maybe only her mind. 

As if to call her bluff, Rachel made an especially curt turn and Nicole groaned, inertia throwing her injured body this way and that.

Nicole uncapped the bottle of pills, tossed one in her mouth, and swallowed.

Now she stands (as much as she can, crutches and Rachel supporting her) on Earp land, cold and confused and so, so tired that her eyes begin to close of their own accord even as she stumbles toward the homestead. 

Once inside she collapses on the floor by the fireplace, cushioned by the carpet and comforted by the closest thing to home she will ever have.

xx

She wakes with a start, a strangled gasp, bolting upright and blinking until her eyes adjust to the darkness surrounding her.

“Oh, thank goodness,” someone says, and Nicole shuffles some more, erratic, tries to stand, hands flailing in search of something—a weapon, _her_ weapon—to protect herself, but all she manages to grab is a fistful of a large blanket spread across her legs, one of which throbs in time with her pounding heart. “Relax, Rambo. It’s just me.”

It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, the only light she can see coming from a small candelabrum on the floor beside her. When they do she sees a pair of boots resting on the floorboards, the right tapping a soothing rhythm like a metronome.

“Rachel,” she murmurs, glancing upwards at the teenager, who smiles wanly before surging forward when Nicole tries to stand again.

“Woah, easy.” She drops to her knees, gently pushing Nicole back against an array of cushions behind her. “You are in no condition to be moving like that.”

“I’m fine,” Nicole grunts before a sharp, shooting pain permeates through her leg. “Oh, no. No. I’m not fine.”

“That’s what I thought.” Rachel plucks a prescription bottle from somewhere beside her, pops the cap, pours a couple of capsules into her hand, then offers it to Nicole. “Take these. It’ll help with the pain.”

Nicole eyes her hand suspiciously, the flickering light from the burning candle casting odd shadows and a hell of a lot of doubt. “What is that?”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Aspirin.”

Now fully awake, Nicole cannot concentrate on much else beyond the pain permeating throughout her body. Whatever reservations she has are washed away with each new wave of hurt. She opens her hand to accept the pills, tosses them in her mouth, and is about to swallow them with will and spit until she catches something on the stairs.

 _VALDEZ_.

Nicole spits out the pills.

“What are you— ”

“Why is your name carved into the stairs?”

A beat.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Nicole turns and then notices the rifle that leans against the chair Rachel sits at. How she hadn’t before is beyond her, but given her vision continues to blur at the edges the longer she goes without some relief, she suspects the homestead could be on fire and she would be none the wiser.

“Hey,” Nicole starts, adopting a tone Nedley had once described as ‘the siren song of the Ghost River Triangle’ for how it subdued even the most hardened of criminals. Rachel, however, seems as immune to her charms as Wynonna, who was nothing if not ornery with law enforcement. Rather than relax, she stiffens and rests her hand on the stock of the rifle. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me.”

Rachel snorts. “You’re damn right I don’t.”

It’s meant to intimidate, but her voice lacks the necessary vitriol. It wavers, the only tell that Rachel is, indeed, scared. Not of Nicole, who is anchored to the floor thanks to injuries she suspects will haunt her forever, but of the dire situation they have found themselves in but that neither of them can quite comprehend.

Her poker face, all things considered, is damn good. Nicole gambles anyway. 

“But I trust you,” Nicole continues, wincing as she sits as straight as she can. Rachel lets her move, eyes darting from her face to her leg and back again. “You saved my life, and you didn’t have to.”

Rachel bites her lip, now focused on the candle burning by her boots. It feels like hours of silent contemplation, Nicole waiting with waning breath for a verdict, wholly at the mercy of the teenager before her. Then Rachel smiles, barely, and mumbles, “I shouldn’t have for knocking me upside the head.”

“I can’t say I disagree.” Nicole waits until Rachel meets her gaze to grin, tentative but hopefully trusting. “I promise I’m much more personable in less … pressing circumstances.”

Rachel snorts. “I doubt it. You’re the law, which some would say is the very _antithesis_ of personable.”

This causes Nicole to laugh, full and hearty, but the sound gets caught in her throat, tangled with moans of pain as her body reminds her of its urgent needs.

Namely a new leg.

“Okay.” Then Rachel is at her side, helping her to her feet and guiding her to the stairs, and all Nicole can do is let her, suddenly so tired and so, so hurt. “Let’s get you fixed.”

xx

All she wants is a shower, so Rachel leaves her to it, promising to stay on the property lest she fall and break another bone.

Undressing is something of an ordeal. Her muscles ache, burn, exhausted from the exertion of the day before. Even her fingers are useless, either numb from the cold or simply arthritic; she struggles to free her buttons from their holes, everything stiff, no malleability to her clothes, her skin, her bones. When she chances a glance at the mirror, at first all she sees is an icicle.

As she pushes her uniform off of her arms she sees the bruises. Constellations of black and blue riddle her shoulders, her chest, her abdomen. Most of them are faint, just touches of discoloration that she thinks she could convince Waverly is just mild frostbite.

“Waverly,” she whispers and _remembers_ , absently listening to the water from the running shower pelt the porcelain Waverly cleaned earlier in the week, anticipating Nicole would want a bath after a long, hard day of work. She did, but only if Waverly did too, and so was the cause for cancelling their appearance at Shorty’s for an impromptu shindig neither of them wanted to attend anyway. A total of ten missed calls and an endless barrage of text messages—mostly from Wynonna, all of them threatening—awaited them on phones they turned off.

“I feel kind of bad,” Waverly had said, bringing the bubbles in their water closer to her chest. “Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Not at all?”

“Not at all,” Nicole whispered, punctuating her sentence with a kiss to the shoulder pressed against her. “I don't want to share you.”

Waverly snorted but leaned into her anyway, wet hair she missed in her messy bun sticking to her skin. “You’ll have to eventually.”

“Says you.”

“Nicole Haught, you are a child.”

Nicole splashed hardly a drop of water at Waverly, but it was the catalyst for a tsunami that flooded her bathroom and sent them running for shelter under the bedsheets.

That was only a week ago, _before_ , yet it feels like a fraction of a millisecond and an entire lifetime has passed. When she remembers all the moments thereafter, time seems to stop altogether. 

Time, as it were, continues on.

xx

It takes her a minute, but Nicole makes it downstairs again after showering and changing into clothes stored in her drawer in Waverly’s bedroom, aided by the stolen crutches and medication.

She finds Rachel in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers with a knapsack Nicole thinks belongs to Waverly slung onto her shoulder.

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Rachel jumps, elbowing a drawer closed in the process.

Nicole falls into a chair with a hefty sigh, using her crutches as leverage, and then props her injured leg on another, wincing when it makes contact. “No, just Nicole. What’re you doing?”

Rachel adjusts the knapsack on her shoulder, which Nicole now _knows_ belongs to Waverly because of the geometric buffalo skull keychain hanging off the zipper, and sniffs. “I was just leaving.”

“Leaving?”

Twilight had descended upon Purgatory in the time it had taken Nicole to wash away the misfortune of the day from her body, no small feat considering it had by now made its way to her riven heart. Leaving now, with monsters likely amuck and canopied by the night, was a bad idea. Being anywhere inside the Ghost River Triangle was a bad idea, but these waters Nicole could navigate, the map charted by memories made and borrowed.

Rachel had none of that. Rachel had nothing nowhere.

“You can’t leave.”

It sounds like a plea, desperate, and maybe she is, but she decides she is not above groveling if it means she can protect _someone_ from a grim fortune.

“I can and I will.”

Rachel returns to ransacking the kitchen of anything, she assumes, that can be turned into a weapon. She lifts a corkscrew from a drawer, shrugs, and stuffs it into her stolen bag.

“You can’t leave,” Nicole says again and Rachel sighs, turning on her heel to face Nicole fully. “It’s dangerous, and you don’t have anywhere to go, so I think it’d be best if— ”

“I’m leaving, Nicole.” Rachel sighs again and runs a hand through her hair before adjusting the knapsack on her back and stepping toward the door where a rifle waits, propped against the wall. She stands at the door for a second, unmoving, back to Nicole, and then she grabs the rifle and opens the door. “I’m sorry.”

Before Nicole can tell her she has nothing to apologize for, she is gone and Nicole is alone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Life is chaos at the moment, but the chapters (and lots of other works-in-progress) should come sooner rather than later. Comments give me serotonin in the meanwhile. Come talk to me on Twitter at @rangerreeser. Stay safe, folks.


End file.
